Wait for Signs: Twelve Longmire Stories (7 page)

Another gust showered me with the frozen shards that had blown from the hood of my truck and carried my hat into the ditch a good ten yards away. “Well, hell . . .” I looked at Dog, who was investigating about halfway between my hat and me, raised my ghostly gloved finger, and pointed at the quivering piece of beaver felt, which was threatening to blow even further away. “Fetch.”

He sat.

I sighed and trying not to allow too much snow to climb up my pant legs into my overboots started down the hillside. Dog leapt from his sitting position and made a playful grab at my hand—he must have thought that I’d climbed down in the ditch to play. I swatted him once and then felt him mouth my glove in his teeth until my hand grew numb. “Hey.” He let go and looked sheepish, or at least as sheepish as an animal that looked like a cross between a bear and wolf can look.

I was within a step from my hat when the wind kicked it
over again and blew it against one of the boxes that had spilled from the truck. I felt the sweat hardening in my hair as I postholed my way through the next drift and rescued the 10X before it could take off again.

Figuring I could assist in the cleanup that would hopefully commence within the hour, I leaned down and picked up the carton, brushed off the snow, and read the label along with the model number—UB-742.

I lodged it under my arm and retraced the holes in the snowpack that I had made, this time up the hillside, just in time to see a pair of headlights slowly making their way around the bypass curve and creeping even slower down the road in the face of the emergency lights.

From the configuration of the grille, I could tell it wasn’t Saizarbitoria.

When I got back to the edge of the road, I raised my hand in greeting to the people in the old Toyota 4Runner with a bashed-in fender. They were going slow enough to be safe, but they slowed even more when they saw me, and finally came to a stop.

Dog joined me as I stepped around the corner of my truck and stooped down to look in the driver’s-side window. It was rolled down about four inches, but the young man who had been driving kept his eyes on the road. Next to him was a child bundled up in a blanket and a young woman who leaned across the toddler and screamed at me, “Where the hell are we supposed to go?!”

Assuming I must’ve lost the first part of the conversation, I moved in closer and balanced the package on my hip. “Excuse me?”

She looked disgusted and then began yelling again. “We tried to get on the highway and you wouldn’t let us, now we’re trying to get home and you won’t even let us do that!”

I glanced at the man, who remained immobile. I guessed he’d done his part in the Christmas Eve shouting match before I’d arrived and was now leaving the rest to me. I could’ve just let it go and waved them on, but there are times when you feel the need to do a little social work. I set the box down by my boots. “License, registration, and proof of insurance.”

The woman, whom I assumed was his wife, threw herself back against the seat in a fit of pique and folded her arms. “I don’t believe this.”

The driver dug out his paperwork and handed it to me through the slim opening without meeting my eyes. I pulled the Maglite from the leg of my coveralls and focused its beam on his license. His name was Leonard Trice, and he lived about a mile down the road. “Mr. Trice, do you mind if I ask what you’re doing out on a night like this?”

The woman leaned back across him and the child, who was now awake and howling. She spoke slowly and loudly, as if I didn’t speak English. “We were on our way over to Sheridan for some last minute shopping, but you closed the highway!”

She said it as if we’d done it to spite her. “Mrs. Trice, the highway patrol has closed the roads from Hardin to Wheatland—there isn’t anything open.”

Now even she wasn’t looking at me.

I studied the two of them and the crying child, who was not in a car seat. I thought about how hard it had been for my wife and me when we’d started a family; how we’d scrimped and saved, and how it’d always seemed to take everything we
had just to get by. I handed the man back his information. “Hold on just a sec.”

I pulled the back door of the SUV open with a yank that quickly dislodged it from the ice, placed the box on the seat, and then closed the door with a solid thump. Looking down at him, I stood there in the blowing snow. “Merry Christmas.”

He glanced into his backseat and then turned to look at me for the first time. “What’s in it?”

I shrugged. “UB-742s, a whole carton of them.” He continued to look at me. “It fell out of a sleigh.”

He studied me for a moment longer. “Does that mean we can go?”

I couldn’t, for the life of me, think of anything else to say, so I just pointed again and intoned:
“Many calls that night, did Scrooge make with the Spirit of Christmas Present. Down among the miners who labored in the bowels of the earth. And out to sea among the sailors at their watch, dark, ghostly figures and their several stations.”

They all three stared at me. Then the young man closed the window, and the family, without another word, pulled away in their battered Toyota.

All in all, I’d say it was a stunning performance.

I figured at this rate, if I kept practicing, I’d be ready for next year.

We have a problem in northern Wyoming, the part between the Bighorn Mountains and Yellowstone National Park, that I call “people having been driven to distraction.” Our state is host to roughly twelve million visitors a year, and it makes for a few problems, particularly for those of us in law enforcement.

We have our share of people who drive off the road because they are mesmerized by the first view of the snowcapped peaks, and those who try and pet the bears, ride the buffalo, or skinny-dip in the thermal pools.

Strangers in a strange land, tourists are prone to these kinds of mistakes, as well as to crimes of a more banal variety, like, say, driving off without paying for the gas they just bought.

The drive-off is the most prevalent unlawful act in the area, and it falls to those of us in either the Absaroka County Sheriff’s Department or the Wyoming Highway Patrol to pull the folks over and inform them that they owe the Kum & Go $47.63. I guess it could be worse.

Generally people turn bright red, at which point we give them a blue warning ticket and ask them to return to the station and pay the green. Sometimes people are broke and don’t have the money, but usually folks are happy to return with the officer and pay up, and the service stations don’t press charges—no harm, no foul.

It was one of those beautiful September afternoons when I happened to come upon Santiago Saizarbitoria out on the bypass. Sancho had detained a maroon Chrysler Town & Country pulling, appropriately enough, a U-Haul trailer adorned with the visage of state favorite Buffalo Bill, and emblazoned with the words
CENTER OF THE WEST—CODY, GATEW
AY TO YELLOWSTONE NA
TIONAL PARK.

Few traffic stops in Absaroka County are worthy of the attention of two officers, but I was on my way back from a Saturday morning DARE talk with the bored detention students at the Durant High School, so I slid the Bullet in beside the Basquo’s unit and rolled down the window. “What’s up, troop?”

Without looking at me, he gestured with a pen toward the vehicle in front of him. “Drive-off from the Maverik convenience store.”

I glanced at the occupants. “I guess they decided it was convenient not to pay?”

“They seem harmless enough.” He shrugged and looked at them. “I think they’re Amish.”

I ignored his attitude—he and his wife had been having a time with their son, Antonio, who, although he was approaching his first birthday, still had his own ideas about regular sleeping patterns. “How’s life at home?”

He sighed. “I figure I’m getting about four hours of sleep a night and it’s killing me. I thought by now he’d be easier.”

My mind wandered to my daughter, The Greatest Legal Mind of Our Time. “Cady had colic one time and put Martha and me through the ringer; I know Vietnam POW friends of mine who didn’t have to go through that kind of sleep deprivation.”

Nodding, he continued to write up the warning ticket for the driver of the minivan. “I mean, I love him, but at two o’clock in the morning I feel like disciplining him with a weedwacker.” He glanced at the back of the trailer in front of him and then read from the license on his clipboard. “Jacob Aaron of Nogales, Arizona.”

I thought about the town on the Arizona border about a mile from Mexico. “Strange place to be Amish.”

“Maybe they’re rebel Amish, like those Hutterites in Montana—you know, the ones in the Big Horn valley who drive cars and have cell phones.”

“Most of those are up in Alberta and Saskatchewan.” I thought about it. “Did you know that they were persecuted during World War I, because they refused to fight? Four of them were imprisoned and two were killed in Leavenworth.”

He turned to look at me. “I was joking, boss.”

“Oh.”

Yawning, he gestured toward the Chrysler. “You want me to follow them back to the gas station?”

I glanced at the vehicle, but I couldn’t get a clear view of the passengers. “Well, if they’re men of God, I think we can trust them to drive the half mile back and pay for the gas.”

He shrugged and continued writing. “You’re the boss, boss.”

I pulled the three-quarter-ton down into gear. “When you get off duty, get some rest.” Inching forward, I stopped by the driver’s-side window to chat with the bearded, darkly clad driver. “Sorry we had to pull you over, Mr. Aaron.”

He looked worried and even went so far as to take off his hat. “No, it’s my fault.” He gestured toward the man in the passenger seat. “Joseph went inside to get sandwiches and drinks and I thought he had paid for the gas.”

Joseph looked sullen, took another bite of his sandwich, and chewed through the words. “I thought you paid.”

I glanced behind them at the two in the back, who were similarly dressed. “On holiday?”

“Yes. We are seeing the Black Hills today. Hopefully.”

“It should be beautiful that way with the aspens and cottonwoods changing color.”

He nodded. “We hope so.”

“Well, happy motoring.”

I pulled the Bullet into reverse and backed up even with the Basquo. “They’re Jewish.”

He didn’t look up. “Really.”

“Yep. Hasidic, I’m guessing, from the dress and long sideburns.”

The intonation of his response was exactly as before. “Really.”

“You don’t care.”

He finally looked at me with red-rimmed eyes. “No, I don’t.”

“You know, part of the job is noticing things.”

“Really.”

“Like I said—get some rest.” I nodded to myself, pulled the
Bullet back into gear, and started off, calling out to him. “You’ve been hanging around with Vic too much.”

Thinking about the high wise-guy quotient in my office, I drove past the lumberyard and noticed that I was low on gas, too.

*   *   *

Pulling into the Maverik, I slid the county card and began filling up my truck. As I stood there listening to “The Girl from Ipanema” piped in from the overhead speakers and trying to ignore the placard on the top of the pump touting sale prices on Rainier beer, I watched as the van with the Buffalo Bill U-Haul made a right on route 16 and headed east out of town.

I quickly clicked off the pump, hung it up, and called Santiago on my radio. “Hey, troop, did you just cut the guys with the U-Haul free?”

Static. “Yeah.”

“Were they coming over here to pay for the gas?”

Static. “Yeah.”

“Well, they just drove by the Maverik headed for the interstate like the Macy’s Day parade.”

Static. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

I fired up the Bullet and pulled through the pump island onto the road with my light bar on but no siren. “Don’t worry; I’ll get ’em. They’re probably lost.”

*   *   *

With the Chrysler safely pulled over again, this time at the I-90 entrance ramp, I climbed out and walked toward them, passing
Buffalo Bill and running my hand over the single row of shiny sheet-metal screws on the side of the trailer.

“Howdy again.”

The man looked even more embarrassed this time. “We can’t find the gas station.”

I glanced down the road. “About a half mile back that way; it’s across from where you pulled out.” He turned and again gave an accusatory look at his passenger, who was eating from a bag of chips. “If you want, you can just follow me back.”

He dipped his head. “Of course. Thank you.”

I led them to the Maverik and watched as they parked in the shade next to the picnic tables beside Clear Creek. With a dark look, Joseph ducked past my truck, and went inside. I got out, too, figuring what the hey, I’d take advantage of the Rainier sale and grab an eighteen-pack for Gameday. The Broncos-Chiefs game was tomorrow, so Henry would be over to watch—I would, as always, torment him with my beer of choice.

I set my prospective purchase on the counter and stood behind Joseph in line. “Don’t forget to pay for those snacks along with the gas.”

He nodded curtly. The kid at the register rang him up, and Joseph paid in cash from a wad secured with a thick rubber band.

“Enjoy the Hills.”

He glanced up at me, nodded, and went out the door without a word. The cashier held his receipt out after him but finally dropped it on the counter. “Those Amish, they’re weird.”

I picked up the abandoned ticket and examined it.

*   *   *

They weren’t as happy to see me this time, as I raised a hand to keep them from pulling away from the convenience store. “Mr. Aaron, I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?”

He looked genuinely annoyed. “This is getting to be a bit much—I mean, we paid for the gas. Is there another problem, Sheriff?”

“No, no, nothing like that. I just don’t get the opportunity to discuss different theologies very often and was wondering if you could answer a few quick questions for me.”

He glanced at the clock in the dash, avoided my eyes, and made a definitive statement by reaching down to turn the key and firing up the Chrysler. “We are hoping to be in the Black Hills today.”

Ignoring the fact that the vehicle was running, I tipped my hat back and folded my arms on his window. “Oh, this won’t take long—you’re Hasidic, are you not?”

He nodded, quickly adding, “Yes we are, but . . .”

“I hope you’ll excuse my ignorance, but the Hasidim are Haredi or ultra-Orthodox—one of the most conservative forms of Judaism, am I correct?”

“Well, yes.”

“Now, the Hasidim wear clothing that other Orthodox Jews can’t wear, such as the tallit katan over the shirts, like some of you gentlemen are wearing now, whereas other Orthodox Jews have to wear them under their shirts with only the tzitzit hanging out, right?”

He studied my face. “You . . . You seem extraordinarily knowledgeable on the subject of Judaism for a Wyoming sheriff.”

I smiled. “Well, I had a Jewish girlfriend in college, and
you’d be surprised what you can learn when you’re motivated, and with the right teacher.”

Nervously, he turned to his compatriots and then stared at the wheel. “I see.”

I reached out and patted his shoulder. “Oh, I’m just showing off . . . But I do have just one more question, if you don’t mind.”

He nodded again, but this time with even less enthusiasm as he looked in his side mirror and saw Saizarbitoria’s unit pulling in behind him. “Uh . . . Anything we can do to help.”

“Well, if the Hasidim are the most conservative of the Jewish Orthodoxy, how is it you’re driving a car on the Sabbath?”

He inhaled and then took a very long time to look me in the eye. “Excuse me?”

“It’s Saturday, Mr. Aaron, and even I know that it’s forbidden. As one of the thirty-nine types of work the Torah prohibits on the Sabbath, isn’t starting a car a form of lighting a fire? I mean, correct me if I’m wrong, but you hit the ignition, the engine burns the fuel . . .”

His mouth moved and finally something came out. “Oh, my . . . Umm. We’ve been traveling, and we must’ve lost track of the days.” He reached down and turned off the ignition. “Thank you for reminding us.”

“I know that some Orthodox and Reform Jews drive on the Sabbath for specific purposes such as going to synagogue, but the nearest ones are down in Cheyenne and up in Billings, and since you said, numerous times, that you were going to the Black Hills today . . .”

He cleared his throat and mumbled something unintelligible.

I reached in across the steering wheel, pulled the keys, and stuffed them in my jacket pocket to keep my hands free. “Also, not only does this happen to be a Saturday and the Sabbath, but it’s also Rosh Hashanah.”

His eyes grew very wide.

“Happy New Year, Mr. Aaron, it’s the start of the high holidays.” I adjusted my Ray-Bans and placed the web of my thumb onto the hammer of my .45 Colt. “The Day of Judgment is to come.”

I glanced back and watched as Saizarbitoria stepped from his unit and, walking behind their trailer, came up on the passenger side. “In all honesty, I probably wouldn’t have noticed myself, but it was on a holiday calendar up at the high school where I was doing a DARE talk with some of the wayward students who had to come in for detention on a Saturday. DARE is the Drug Abuse Resistance Education program; I’m not sure if it does a lot of good, but it gives me a chance to go in and talk to the kids and maybe convince them that there are better ways to spend their time.”

He didn’t move.

“Rosh Hashanah is the pronouncement of the Day of Judgment as I recall, but it’s not final until Yom Kippur, so you get ten days to alter your behavior, correct?”

“Um, yes.”

I moved back, pulled the handle on his door, and swung it wide. “How about stepping out here with me for a moment?”

Sitting there with his seat belt still attached, I guess he was gauging his options, but there really wasn’t any way out. Slowly, he unfastened the belt and turned, sliding from the vehicle as the man in the passenger seat reached down for something in the glove compartment.

Sancho’s Beretta .40 lodged behind Joseph’s right ear, his voice as cool and calm as a loaded number 6 bear trap. “Sheriff’s department—don’t you move.”

I walked the driver back to the U-Haul and thumped a forefinger on Buffalo Bill’s studded chest. “You see this extra set of sheet-metal screws up near the bulkhead, Mr. Aaron?”

He nodded his head and then dropped it to study his shoes.

“There’s no paint on them, which leads me to believe that they were added after the others, possibly to provide a hidden cavity within the trailer.” I stepped back and measured the cargo space with my eyes. “Now, I’m guessing, but from the dimensions, I’d say it’s probably close to two hundred pounds of marijuana in there, which means you and your friends are facing felony charges of possession of a controlled substance, possession of a controlled substance with intent to deliver, and conspiracy with intent to deliver a controlled substance to the tune of well over a million dollars street value.”

The Basquo brought the other men around the van and had them leaning against the side with their fingers laced behind their heads and their legs spread wide, a Glock 19 with rubber bands wrapped around the handle lodged in the back of his duty belt.

I turned the driver toward the U-Haul, his head against the sheet metal, with Buffalo Bill, our blue-eyed boy, looking down at him in haughty disdain. “You know, Mr. Aaron . . .” I attached the cuffs to his wrists and turned him around, smiling at him sadly. “You might’ve gotten away with it if your friend hadn’t bought the ham sandwich and the bag of pork rinds.”